


Boreal

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:52:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Werewolves are not like people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boreal

He Apparatus on the beach at five in the morning, with the sun just barely rising over the Pacific. It was mid-afternoon in grey-London, and he has to shake himself into this new reality, complete with a very different kind of cold. Salt and wind, very fine sand in the hollows of his ears. His Muggle coat is entirely wrong for this weather; he needs a wind cheater in some recently invented material.

 

Two cormorants watch him transfigure Arthur Weasley's venerable London Fog into a drawstring shell of nylon and polyurethane. Dark, dark green, several shades deeper than the plant life of the hills but entirely suited to this world of mist and shadows.

 

Wild trees up the hills, deep rain-forest life, ancient rock. The magic here is entirely different from anything he's used to.

 

Hiking. It's daylight, a week before the full moon, in a world with no familiar directions. Enormous birds, drifting Muggles who focus on him far more easily than he expects. Insects brush around and through his hair. Two hours walking before he looks up at a woman crouched too far up a tree for him to easily comprehend. Nothing inherently magical about her, and yet he can feel her eyes all over him.

 

She says, "Who are you looking for?"

 

Demurral comes too easily to his mouth, but before he's released it, she snaps, "Come up here."

 

Not by Apparating, of course. Via the rope ladder clinging to the tree's skin.

 

He sits before her, perched in the shelter of her tent and platform. Her books are wrapped in plastic. She must have been up here a long time. Her hand isn't one he can take -- there's as much silver as hemp on her, so much he can feel it even over the short distance between them. She watches him not touch her for a long time before she says, "The pack went north last week. You'll only find a couple of loners this far down the coast."

 

"Do you know when they're coming back?"

 

"They don't advance plan. They'll come back when the alphas decide they're coming back. Unless you're a lot more primal than you look, you won't be able to find them in Oregon. They might have gone as far up as British Columbia; I don't know."

 

"Is anyone left?"

 

"A couple. Try that way." Her chin points northeast.

 

"Thank you."

 

"If you're grateful, be useful: check the root system once you're down. I think there's something disturbing it."

 

He walks long miles after that. It rains before midday, mists through the afternoon. The light's sliding away again when he slips in soft earth and a hand catches his collar.

 

"Thank you."

 

"No prob."

 

This is what he was seeking. The pacific-northwest pack are perhaps the loosest association of werewolves currently known to European wizards. Clans and new wolves, spiritualists in ways the European packs disdain. This is high, protected country; the packs hunt animals rather than people, most lunar cycles. The true predators seek less pristine territory. He knows there are raw hunters walking the south and midlands of America, known to Muggle authorities only as impenetrable serial killers. American wizards live in covens surrounded by Muggles who still periodically hunt them; they aren't going to curb the borderland monsters.

 

Nothing like those killers here. this is only an utterly American boy in stained t-shirt and jeans, barefoot in the soft earth. His ginger hair is deliberately tangled, wrapped around bits of avian bone and wild grass braids. Shallow, curious blue eyes.

 

He's very small, though Lupin doesn't realize it until the boy steps in and buries his nose in Lupin's throat.

 

Open, open, don't move. He needs to remember lupine etiquette he never internalized. These aren't his people. The European werewolves never wanted a wizard half-walker; the Siberian wolves were isolated mystics too alien for him to join.

 

The boy steps back. "Hey." The offered hand is notably clean, and has carefully painted nails. "Oz."

 

"Remus Lupin."

 

"You're English."

 

"Yes."

 

"And a werewolf."

 

"Yes."

 

"And a *witch*. Wow."

 

"We prefer 'wizard', but essentially, yes."

 

"But not a Watcher?"

 

"Hmmm?"

 

"British guys. Watch vampire slayers. Mostly dead now."

 

"Yes. I'd heard of them, slightly. But I'm not one, no."

 

"'k. So why're you here?"

 

"I was sent by … never mind. I was sent to meet with the American werewolves."

 

"Okay."

 

He doesn't quite understand how that could be the end of the conversation, but it is. The boy moves off in a way that suggests Lupin is meant to follow him. He wonders if, had he left his family for a pack when he was first bitten, he would be able to move like that -- light-footed and careful, perfectly quiet in the darkening forest.

 

The night stretches and bats invade it. Insects and more rain, birds calling softly from the trees. He can see in the dark, at least, though he thinks it might be easier were he an animagus like Sirius, able to slide into dog-form at will, fully himself in that skin. Twice, he falls, skidding in the soft earth and catching his palm on a stone. Raw skin so obvious its smell travels for miles.

 

The soft ground plays into stone, eventually. Trees and high air. He doesn't see where the boy ducks into a fissure and stands confused until a hand reaches back for him.

 

"Duck."

 

It's low inside, and very dark. The walls are stone, and there's soft, dry plant life coating the floor. Lupin has to bend almost double to reach whatever's beyond this layer of enclosed nothing.

 

Soft strike of a match, and fire in a glass frame. When his pupils contract enough to see, he can make out a small coleman lamp at the edge of a low, natural cave. One sleeping bag, a folded army blanket, a few clothes, books wrapped in plastic against the damp. A box of something American and snacky lies half-under the small pillow. "You could sit down."

 

The shirt he accepts is soft and not so much dirty as integrated to its environment. It smells of leaves and fur. As a chair, its potential is limited, but he appreciates the gesture.

 

"So. Talk."

 

"And if I persuade you, you'll pass my word on?"

 

"Or something."

 

"What do you know about the British wizarding world?"

 

"Bits. It's really organized."

 

"I suppose, in comparison to the American wizards."

 

"Covens. Towns. Books."

 

"Mostly the latter two. The covens in Britain are very much a feminist-separatist venture."

 

"They do okay, I hear."

 

"They do. You know them?"

 

"I had a . . . friend, I guess. She's a witch."

 

"Ah. Well, the organizational part is certainly true. Our society is highly structured, and quite bureaucratic, which is a problem, at present. We have a very powerful rogue wizard at large, one who began what amounts to a civil war, ending some fifteen years ago. The Ministry has decided that a reappearance of this wizard would be a political liability, so they have chosen to ignore the problem."

 

"Okay . . ."

 

"We think that sometime within the next few months or years, magical Britain, and probably much of Europe, will again fall into civil war."

 

"Sounds bad."

 

"Quite."

 

"You didn't come to warn us." It's not a question. The boy watches him calmly, and Lupin realizes what he's saying means little or nothing here. A tragedy, but distant as the Balkan wars -- a localized disturbance, very far away.

 

"Not entirely." He had a speech prepared, but it was written as an appeal to a group. This is closer to teaching children. If he had to explain to Harry the dangers involved, how would he go about it? Or, no. Harry is too intimately connected to what came before. How would he explain it to a Muggle schoolchild? "We think the wizard and his followers will send emissaries to Dark Creatures throughout the Americas very soon. We -- I wanted to speak with you first."

 

"Who's 'we'?"

 

"The Order of the Phoenix. We're a group, outside the Ministry, dedicated to preventing the rise of the Dark Lord."

 

"Do you have a secret handshake?"

 

"We are not, in fact, children with an after-school club. We have taken on the responsibilities of our government, which is, for the moment, dedicated largely to ignoring the threat and to persecuting vulnerable minorities."

 

"Oh. Anarchists. I get that."

 

Somewhere in his head, Sirius' taste for the Sex Pistols asserts itself, and Lupin finds his brain humming 'Anarchy in the UK'. Other parts of his brain leap on that small voice and suppress it firmly. "We are not, I promise you, anything of the sort. The threat we respond to is external. Our differences with the government are beside the point."

 

"Magical right-wing militia?"

 

The wolf deep in Lupin's brain suggests that the proper way to deal with am impertinent youngster is to hold him down and bite him repeatedly. "Do you think you could, in fact, manage to avoid imposing your American-muggle framework on what I'm telling you?"

 

"Dude."

 

"Yes?"

 

"You sound just like Giles."

 

"Who?"

 

"Watcher. High school teacher I had"

 

His head hurts. "Did you drive him mad as well?"

 

"Not so much. I was the quiet one."

 

"I offer my pity to this man, wherever he may be."

 

"England, I think. You should go talk to him." It's halfway to a dismissal.

 

"I didn't. We need *you*."

 

"You won't get them. To the packs, you're not important. To some of them, you might be food"

 

"Voldemort's people will come. They will offer you power and freedom and the blood of innocents."

 

"They mean it?"

 

"Most likely."

 

"You'll lose. It's too good." Pause. "What've you got?"

 

What has he got? The Ministry denies werewolves the most basic rights. He has fantasies in which someone sensible and moderate takes on the Department of Magical Creatures. On high, beautiful nights, he imagines a calm, sensible, compassionate Minister of Magic. He thinks of Fudge, of Dolores Umbridge, of Walden McNair. "We would be your allies, should you ever face such a danger."

 

"In return?"

 

"Do nothing. Refuse the Dark Lord's emissaries. Or come with me, but I can't imagine you would give up such a place as this for London. I wouldn't."

 

"I've been."

 

"Oh?"

 

"I was looking for this mystic. Militias ran him out of Kashmir."

 

He can put a name to the face, Lupin realizes. Tattooed half-wizard, London refugee. He's made a lot of claims, delivered on only a few of them. But the fact the boy was seeking him suggests that Oz was, at one point, looking for a cure.

 

"What do your packmates think of that?"

 

"They're up north. I'm here."

 

It's enough. He has found a lone wolf. The pack structure doesn't open for him, and he doesn't follow the pack. Just a free-range werewolf, and a scruffy American boy, living in a cave which could as easily be a teenager's basement bedroom.

 

But. It's too easy to stay where he is. The boy's lapse into silence -- Oz's lapse, because a wolf without a pack needs at least a name -- is comfortable enough, and when Lupin curls down against the cave call, Oz hands him a plastic-wrapped comic book with only a brief smile as comment.

 

Sometime later, Oz says, "Granola bar?"

 

"Thank you." Lupin takes it, unwraps, eats reflectively. The unbleached wrapper and a handful of leaves crush together in his palm, and a soft whisper turns the mass to biscuits, which he offers back. "Rich tea?"

 

Oz snorts.

 

It rains, water on rock somewhere outside. Lupin burrows lower in the cave, reads the little book. Batman, lost and damaged, negotiating with the Joker. He wonders if any of these artists had seen Azkaban when they first sketched Arkham Asylum. The though isn't terribly urgent; his associated worries are still strung back across a continent and the Atlantic. He could sleep here for a long time. Tired and warm for the first time in weeks.

 

He's close to a trance when Oz asks, "Can I put this out?" Small gesture at the lantern.

 

"What? Oh. What time is it?"

 

Two pale wrists are offered to him. Hemp and amethyst wrap one. Neither arm sports a watch.

 

"Still. I didn't mean to." Pulling himself together. His body, still on Greenwich mean time, complains at the hour's lateness. "If I found the pack, would they listen to me?"

 

"Honestly?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Probably not."

 

"Then I suppose I should go."

 

"It's dark."

 

"I can see." Pause. "You can put that out." He waits until the lamp dies to pull his wand from inside his coat and whisper *lumos* to it.

 

Oz blinks. "Cool."

 

"So you can see, I really will be fine."

 

"Or you could just stay." Soft, friendly offer. Oz is crouched a little, and Lupin wonders if it's a deliberately submissive posture.

 

"This is your space." Open country where they're not packmates, only two males with instincts pushing against ingrained human courtesy.

 

"You're welcome. Really."

 

"I --"

 

Oz leans forward, on his knees, catches Lupin's hand. It's big, held in both of his. He studies the nails for a moment before lifting it to his mouth. "You could stay."

 

"Oh . . ."

 

"Please." Softly.

 

"Very well. Yes."

 

The smile that answers him is small, very sharp. Oz leans in and brushes his mouth over Lupin's. Eyes flicker in wand light, less stable than the spell. He leans back, arches a little. Pale skin opens between jeans and t-shirt, teasing until he presses Lupin's palm again his belly.

 

"Hands?"

 

Of course. "Nox." His wand slides back into his coat, slides off his shoulders in a soft rustle. The darkness is different without it. The air now striking his skin is damp and forest-scented. The body which leans in against him is small and warm and smells familiar in a way no human lover ever has. Biting kisses all over his mouth. This freedom, to be able to bite and hurt no one.

 

He blows air through his teeth when Oz's fingers slide, cold and curious, inside his clothes. They unbutton him and rub over him. Softly covered cheswt against his, fushing him down. Around Oz's sleeping bag, the floor is covered with soft plant life and loose fur.

 

Oz's mouth slides down, dragging across wolf-night scars and licking only briefly at his nipples. It stays longer at his navel, circling, tugging slightly at the dark hair. Bites him hard, just below. Sharp bright touch like the childhood bite he can barely remember. Amazing how much he wants it. There have only been fragments of this, his entire life.

 

"Like that?"

 

"Yessss."

 

"Heh."

 

Wet, curious mouth on his, sucking a little but licking and nuzzling far more. Familiar and curious as well as sensual. Oz's hair twists like a living thing between Lupin's fingers. Smiling against him, little wild being that he could, perhaps, have been, had his entire life been different. It might have taken only one journey, looking for a pack, but he's not sure he could have found a European werewolf this gently friendly. Nothing like a threat when Oz slides down away from Lupin's mouth. Hands push him, lift and spread his knees, and Oz settles under them, curls in before he offers even a cursory lick.

 

This is nearly the way he remembers it. Boy-mouth locked on his flesh, sucking on his cock very carefully. Tongue and slick hard palate, pressure that moves until he hisses in answer. Fingers rubbing his belly, thighs, down to his scrotum and behind it. Knuckle-press that lights fires behind his eyes, good enough for Lupin to catch hands behind his knees and pull, open himself to it. Too naked, and he could die like this, but blindingly good.

 

Aching when Oz pulls back for air. The pause lets him think, though. He draws the boy up to him, kisses that mouth and licks his taste out of it. Hard as he can remember being in years, slick against Oz's still-clothed hip.

 

"May I, please?"

 

"Yeah."

 

He can feel Oz over him even before the boy settles astride his waist. Heat-shape as he stretches up to pull the t-shirt off, little cool shadow of his hands sliding down along his belly. Fingers Lupin catches in his own, both of them touching Oz's waist and rubbing gently at his belly hair.

 

Opening his jeans, stroking down. Oz's hands rub down his arms and wait there. Hard cock he can lift out and palm; its head in the creases of his hands is more intense than anything he can remember. Slickly messy, sharp-smelling. It's all over his touch when he pulls Oz down on top of him to kiss and push the jeans off. The skin-to-skin touch is bright and still almost overwhelmed by the his scent and Oz's, on both their faces and in their hair. Both of them on Oz's lips when he licks the hand from fingertip to wrist.

 

He opens so easily when Lupin rolls him under. Relaxed on the soft-hard floor, watching him in the nearly perfect dark.

 

When Lupin spells slick warmth into his body, Oz shivers, hard. Shakes himself out and then settles again, breathing so smoothly he might never have broken apart. "Wow."

 

Kiss again, mouth open under his, and legs hooked around his hips. Gentle-careful, fingers, then cock, pushing for such a long time before he slides in. Oz gives another full-body shiver in response, warm and close under him, and he twists when Lupin stops to wait for him. "Feels good."

 

It's not as frantic a coupling as he expects. He twists and the response Oz gives is so remarkable he has to try for it again. Searching, all the time, looking for just *that* sound. Tight and slick, friendly mouth pulling him down.

 

"If you want. Hard."

 

It's all the permission he needs. Down on his arms, kneeling with Oz's legs hooked around him, close and fierce against him and growling. Bare neck bent like an offering, that bare memory that it's safe to. Bite.

 

Open skin against his mouth and just faint blood in his mouth and he comes blindingly, growling into Oz's skin.

 

Oz cards fingers through Lupin's hair until he's calm. Hard cock against his belly, leaking gently. Waiting. "Hey."

 

"Yes. Lovely." Easier to kiss when he isn't desperate. Careful, deep, holding Oz's mouth while he pulls out and settles to one side. Breaks the kiss only to lick his palm, and he's startled when Oz's leans up to mirror him. Mouth on his, sweet and pulling at him, while he reaches down.

 

Softer skin on that shaft than he can ever believe, between times. Wet, salty smell that's already all over them both, now only a little stronger. Oz shifts to one side, nuzzles into Lupin's neck. Hard breaths against him. They could tangle like this, mouth and stroke each other all night, and he knows Oz is nearly frantic but it feels so distant.

 

"Please…"

 

Yes. Tighter, hard enough to draw it out of him, and he can feel Oz pull together in the moment he comes. Soft growl and salty all over. Slick

 

They wrap around each other, after, and kiss, soft leaves on Oz's skin and earth on Lupin's. Oz draws a blanket around them. Distantly, outside, it's still raining.

 

Twice Lupin wakes, sitting up before he's fully conscious. Oz's touch slides down from his chest to his lap, but the boy only shifts deeper into whatever sleep he's found. Lupin settles back against him and floats at the edge of sleep until it washes over him. Once he surfaces into cold, curled in on himself in Oz's absence. When he stills, he can hear wolf-howls, near and far-echoing.

 

He falls asleep again without realizing it, and when he wakes, Oz is tugging at him. Quiet urgency in the boy's face and an offered jumper, somewhat earth-stained, in his hand. Lupin takes as few moments as he can, dressing. Filthy, but he can scourgify himself before he meets full humans again.

 

It's only grey beyond the cave, and after the night's rain the world is soaked. All around him, people dressed in raw leather and bone crouch, watching. The Pacific northwest pack have come. All of them.

 

His shirt's back in the cave. So is his jacket. Only jeans and jumper, boots and no socks guard him from the air, and he's faced with dozens of creatures fiercer, braver, brighter than he can ever remember being. He could step out of himself, here and now, and he thinks they might accept him.

 

Standing there in the rainforest, trying to remember that his English life is important. That he wants to go back.


End file.
